Memoir of an Abduction
by fmapreshwab
Summary: When Dr. John Watson finds himself in a small room with an old friend and a shoddy memory, he has only one choice:  work with his friend to find a way out.  But is Holmes too far gone to be of any use? Rated for mild language.
1. Uncertain and Afraid

A/N: Due to some unforeseen (and annoying) circumstances (life happens, et cetera), this came along a LOT later in the game than was originally planned, so I'd like to thank my returning readers for their patience and my new readers for coming along for the ride. As always, I do not own the characters I have used in this story, but the good Sir Conan Doyle seems to be pretty cool with people borrowing his famous boys (so long as I don't make any money off of it, of course).

Secondary (more plot-relevant!) A/N: This is meant to be read as a sequel to my last story "I Can't Lose You", but for all my new readers, I'll give you the long and short. Watson would walk into hell itself for his friend, but Holmes wants him all to himself.

* * *

><p>The first thing of which I was conscious as I slowly roused from my deep slumber was a delightful, delicious warmth at my back. Sleep still clung heavily about my mind, and so I refrained from opening my eyes. Since no harm was to come of it, I decided I should indulge in the little game I had put myself to from time to time since leaving the constant presence of my dear friend, and tried to deduce my surroundings without visual clues.<p>

I had made up my mind that I must have fallen asleep while reading by the fire, despite having no memory of what I had been reading, when I heard a moan nearby. I must be at Baker Street, then, for it was a familiar, unmistakable voice which had set up such a clamor so near to the fire.

But I had learned over the years the process of matching theories to evidence, and my current explanation of the situation failed to cover a small subset of facts in evidence, chief among them the tugging of ropes at my wrists.

I shifted slightly, realizing as I did so that I was upright, and so was likely not sleeping on the Baker Street couch with a fire at my back as I had so hopefully imagined. No, I was in a chair with my wrists lashed to the arm supports. The chair was either backless, or else someone had found a manner of heating the cushions with the result I have already described. I opened my eyes.

I realized as I did so that I had ignored entirely another factor which should have at once shattered the pleasant dream I had concocted for myself: the smell. I was in some dank room somewhere, and it was entirely to cool for there to be a fire anywhere in the vicinity. I wondered briefly how it was that after all the time I had spent with the great and inimitable Sherlock Holmes, I had managed to acquire so little of his skill of deduction. As I looked ahead, unwilling at the moment to turn my head, I saw stone walls. The damp chill in the air combined with the smell gave me the deep and abiding conviction that I was, in fact, underground.

I knew immediately that I would not come to such a place of my own will, and even if I were of the persuasion, would not have been left alone, tied up. But I was not alone, and that fact seemed to answer so many of my questions. I was with Holmes, for surely it had been his voice sending up the deep groan of only a moment ago. Holmes had gotten me into some fresh mess from which I would be forced to extricate myself, likely along with him.

The realization also explained the warmth I felt at my back, relished only a moment ago, now filling me with a strange cocktail of resentment, anger, and fear. I was underground, in a small, cold, windowless room, likely with one door which I could not at the moment see, tied to both a chair, and to Sherlock Holmes.

'_What _have_ I gotten myself into?'_

* * *

><p>I searched my memory, but could find nothing of substance save those things which I knew as facts, but for which I had no evidence. As an example, I knew without question that I had not seen Holmes in days, but, as to how many, I hadn't the foggiest idea. I tried to focus my mind on my abduction, but came back with a similar lack of certainty.<p>

From where could anyone possibly take me that I should be in such a state of disarray? My shirt was only half-buttoned, missing both cufflinks and necktie. My pants were horribly stained, likely ruined, by a dark, mottled mess which—. Blood. My trouser legs, up nearly to the waist, were covered in blood.

Certainly it could not be my own, else I would likely have never woken up. A quick examination led me to the conclusion that the stains had originated from two separate sources, the bulk of it dried in and soaked deep into the fabric, while some smaller amount was still quite fresh. As I watched a drop fall into the fresh puddle pooling in my lap, I amended my theory; perhaps some of the wretched stains could claim me as a source, after all. But that blood which had long since dried could not be my own.

That left for two possible scenarios. One, there had been another with me during my abduction who had not been so fortunate as I to be taken alive. My mind went immediately to Mary, and, just as quickly, I dismissed the idea. That left the second option, that I had taken some piece of my attackers, as there had likely been some few sent to take me, rather than being quietly dispatched. I feared the former, but to put my faith in the latter gave me a measure of both satisfaction and hope.

A thing occurred to me then which filled me with dread. I attempted finally a turn of my head, but succeeded only in sending a shooting pain through my skull. I waited a moment for my vision, clouded by the pain, to clear, and as I did so recalled with a sinking heart that horrid groan which had first commended my friend's presence to my attention. It was not a thing I should ordinarily have disregarded so off-handedly, but I was not so much myself at the moment as I may have hoped.

I swallowed hard, attempting to send some moisture down into my throat, gone hot and dry for fear of the answers my next question would draw. "Holmes," I began quietly, half-hoping he would not hear me, "are you quite all right?"

* * *

><p>I am coming back from a long time-off. Let me know what you think if you have an suggestions. Otherwise, I should have something to follow-up in about a week.<p>

-fmapreshwab


	2. Awake and Alarmed

A/N: Due to some unforeseen (and annoying) circumstances (life happens, et cetera), this came along a LOT later in the game than was originally planned, so I'd like to thank my returning readers for their patience and my new readers for coming along for the ride. As always, I do not own the characters I have used in this story, but the good Sir Conan Doyle seems to be pretty cool with people borrowing his famous boys (so long as I don't make any money off of it, of course).

Secondary (more plot-relevant!) A/N: This is meant to be read as a sequel to my last story "I Can't Lose You", but for all my new readers, I'll give you the long and short. Watson would walk into hell itself for his friend, but Holmes wants him all to himself.

* * *

><p>Perhaps at this juncture, my readers would prefer if I took this particular story back to its beginning. That will come in time, but I believe if you are to be best served in this narrative, dear reader, you should come into the facts as I did. For the moment, my imprisonment shall serve as the beginning, and my realizations and recollections as the story.<p>

Holmes groaned again, and I realized for the first time that I had been the first to gain my conscious mind. Holmes was moaning in an unconscious state. Realizing that this would likely be my best chance to get a complete view of the room in which we were being held, I tested the bonds lashing us together and the give they allowed between us.

As Holmes slept, his head was dipped forward, which allowed for me to tilt my own head over his shoulder. I pushed back against Holmes's unmoving form, bending him forward and allowing myself an inverted view of the wall opposite him. Set into the wall was a large, heavy-looking door with a lock set into the knob. I wanted to examine further the view my current position afforded me, but I was not to be bent over Holmes very much longer.

He was beginning to regain consciousness, and he began to buck instinctively against the weight which held him down as his thinking mind took control of his body. I felt him jerk from side to side as he straightened, looking around him as I first had. "Watson." It was not a question.

I hesitated only a moment. "I'm here, Holmes." It occurred to me then, as I was still held against him by the ropes, that the warmth I felt where our backs met had not subsided with time. Had I my hands free, I might have checked his face, but I felt certain that Holmes burned with a fever. In such a state, could his faculties be diminished? Would he be able to handle the demands of our situation? Would he be of any help in freeing us from our captivity? Would he even survive it?

I shook my head, banishing the questions to a corner of my mind used for that which was better left unexamined. I realized then how careful I had to be with my movements as my shaking produced a strangled groan from Holmes. "Please. Do not. Do that again. Doctor." His speech was slow, but not slurred; his breathing was shallow but even.

"Holmes," I began to ask again, "are you quite alright?"

"I should say not, my dear doctor," he said in his slow, steady way. "Either that, or the room is spinning all its own."

* * *

><p>And just like that, it all began to come back to me. It had been late at night. Mary and I had had a fight during dinner, not our first, nor, I hoped ardently, our last. I had gone to sleep downstairs on the couch, as was more and more often my place of residence. I could not recall then what the fight had revolved around, but my best hunch said it was something to do with the man at my back.<p>

I was still in my shirt sleeves when one of Holmes's Baker Street boys came to call, Holmes's little lieutenant whose name I could never recall. He had said that Holmes had hit something of a rough patch, and if I would be so obliging as to grab my revolver and follow the boy at once, Holmes would be forever indebted to that spirit in me that inspired such patience and indulgence. The boy had clearly rehearsed the little speech during his midnight journey, as he recited it in quite a huff, with an air neither of understanding nor caring to understand what it was he said.

I had recently engaged in the lamentable habit of keeping the revolver in my bed-side table, as we'd had a break-in only the week before. The boy had instilled in me, if nothing else, a sense of the urgency of the situation, and so it was that I dashed up the stairs in the dark, ignoring that voice of decency which sounded at the back of my mind, warning care less I should wake Mary.

Wake her I did in my haste, still in the mood our fight had left in her. She lit the lamp by the bed and sent me a most fierce glare. I paid her little mind as I rummaged through the drawer in which I had left the gun. My fingers closed round it at last, and I drew it from the clutter, checking the bullets as I went.

"Off again, John? At this late hour?" Her voice was cold, accusing.

"Yes," I answered simply, moving toward the door.

Mary gasped. "Is that all you have to say to me?"

I turned at the door and stood for only a moment, caught in the rush of the moment. I looked her in the eye. I know now a hundred things I should have said. But I said simply "Yes." I could hear her anger as I walked down the stairs and out the door.

The boy was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs which led out to the street. He began to run the moment my foot touched the paved stone of the road. I did not expect that he would know the names of the streets through which Holmes had passed, or indeed the boy himself had traveled in order to find me, so I felt not a great deal of surprise when that the only words fired back at me we "this way" and "hurry".

I nearly knocked the poor lad to the ground when he stopped abruptly at the corner of two small streets. We stood in silence until I realized why he had stopped. In the distance, in the still night air, one could make out the faint but distinct sound of revolver fire. The boy stood stock-still, staring up at me. He would continue if asked, that much I knew of all of Holmes's boys, but I couldn't have done that to him even if I'd needed his guidance still. "Go," I instructed him, allowing him a use far from this place, "go back to the flat. If he has not returned to Baker Street by the morning, you are to go to Scotland Yard and request the assistance of Inspector Lestrade. Do you understand me?"

"Scotland Yard to request the assistance of Inspector Lestrade." The boy's eyes told me he still hadn't the slightest clue what he was saying. I expected it wouldn't matter much, as I planned to have Holmes back to his armchair within the hour, after clearing up whatever misunderstanding his pairing of keen observation and obtuse sense of decorum had gotten him into.

"Good lad. On your way now, back to Baker Street." I patted him once on the back of his head, and he was off, running fast as his feet would carry him.

I turned toward the sound of the shots and began to move as quickly as I was able toward them. It was not long before the sounds had reached near deafening levels, and I realized they all had come from one direction. I ducked down behind some crates left by the road-side and observed the scene.

On one side of the street stood three men, crossing slowly to the other side of the road and taking turns firing off shot after shot into the dark. As I looked to the other side of the road, my heart began to sink and I began to run without the knowledge of the action. The bullets missed me somehow, or else I didn't feel whatever shots did hit me, as there was something far more important monopolizing my attention.

On the other side of the street, lying in the gutter, was my dearest friend in all the world, Sherlock Holmes, bleeding profusely and struggling to breath in the puddle of his own blood in which he had found himself.

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><p>Heart-felt thanks go out to those who have reviewed so far. It's been a very long time since I had the resources, motivation, or time to take on something of this nature and scale, and it means a lot to me to know that someone out there enjoys it. Happy reading.<p>

Also, I may be out of Internet range for a while, so if you don't hear from me by this time next week, check back the week after for an update. It seems Sunday will be this story's update day.


	3. Informed Concern

A/N: Due to some unforeseen (and annoying) circumstances (life happens, et cetera), this came along a LOT later in the game than was originally planned, so I'd like to thank my returning readers for their patience and my new readers for coming along for the ride. As always, I do not own the characters I have used in this story, but the good Sir Conan Doyle seems to be pretty cool with people borrowing his famous boys (so long as I don't make any money off of it, of course).

Secondary (more plot-relevant!) A/N: This is meant to be read as a sequel to my last story "I Can't Lose You", but for all my new readers, I'll give you the long and short. Watson would walk into hell itself for his friend, but Holmes wants him all to himself.

* * *

><p>I was hardly to the center of the street when a large, meaty fist caught my unguarded face. I could feel at the impact sight the slick feeling of new blood pouring from the wound. I once took an oath, sacred to all doctors, that pledged first to do no harm. For Holmes, I was willing to break that oath.<p>

I clubbed my assailant into unconsciousness with the butt of my revolver, opening a large gash in his forehead which gushed unabated as he fell into me. I then turned the sight of my gun to the second man. I stepped protectively in front of Holmes, hoping to guard him from further injury. I could hear him gasp from behind me, and the sound of it wrenched mightily at my heart. I glanced back to assess his level of consciousness, which proved to be my fatal mistake.

Of the two remaining villains, one grabbed at the gun in my hand while the other swung his fist into my stomach. The last thing I could recall before sinking into the familiar dark of unconsciousness was the barrel of my own revolver swiveling into my line of sight.

* * *

><p>"Holmes," I began, startled still from my horrid realizations, "What—what happened? To you?"<p>

"What do you remember?" he asked, his voice thick with effort and pain.

"I remember you. Lying bloody in the street." The very act of saying the words filled me with disgust and a sense of helpless rage.

"I was shot."

"Really?" I asked in an unintentionally, but habitually, sarcastic tone.

"Do you know, Watson, I find myself more and more disadvantaged at the lack of your company."

"What does that—?"

"I expect that even now my revolver lies on the desk in my study."

I grinned madly at that. "I never really thought you were that unreliably helpless."

"Say what you will for my helplessness, it is completely reliable."

"You say you were shot. Why? By whom? Holmes, what's going on?" _What have you gotten me into?_ I wondered. I would have said it aloud, but he had succeeded in forcing guilt upon me. I knew he would need to learn to once more survive without me, but I hadn't thought it would take so long.

The silence which greeted my question filled me with dread. "Holmes? Holmes? Can you hear me, Holmes? Answer me!" My voice had begun to fill with a desperate frustration. If he _did_ have some sort of infection, which was seeming more and more likely the case, allowing him to slip back into unconsciousness was tantamount to allowing him a quiet death. I needed him awake, and I needed it immediately.

I did something then which was both impulsive and stupid. I shook him violently. My actions solicited a pained moan and some indistinct muttering, but little else. "Holmes, don't. You can't fall asleep now. I need you alive. I need you…. I'm going to get us out of this, if only because you can't. We're going to get out of this."

Hardly had I finished the franticly whispered promises I wasn't sure I could keep, than the large door squealed slowly open and footsteps sounded from behind me.

Several thoughts flashed through my head. _Who are these people?_ (for there were surely more than one walking in even now) _What do they want? What was Holmes working on? Will he live to see the end of this?_ I decided to prioritize.

I tried to turn my head, but Holmes's limp (_not lifeless, merely sleeping_, I reminded myself) form was once more in my path. "My colleague has been wounded," I called over Holmes's shoulder. "If I am not allowed to help him, he may not see the end of the day. He requires my assistance. I beg you to allow me to do what is necessary to save his life." I could not see our captors, but they had done nothing to lead me to believe that I had swayed them. There was only one thing left to say. "He'll be of no use to you if he…" I took a deep breath. "If he dies." I have not since found any sentence which was more difficult for me to contemplate, let alone utter aloud.

There was another moment of silence, then the sound of heavy shuffling turned to the other direction, and the door made its ponderous way through its closing circuit. I wondered if I had made a mistake. For whatever reason, likely in response to something I had said, my only contact to whatever was happening here had turned back round and left.

"I didn't mean that. You're going to be fine." I was whispering again to Holmes. "Lestrade will come. I sent that boy of yours after him if you didn't come home. Everything will be…fine." I didn't believe it. The boy had no idea what I was saying to him. He wouldn't know where to find the man, even if he had understood what I had told him. "I'll find a way to save us."

Holmes murmured something in his sleep, then pulled weakly at our bonds. His head rolled back against my shoulder, and he began to whisper to me. "Everything. Fine."

* * *

><p>Sorry about the…eclectic update schedule. Should be all good now, though. Weekly updates to resume.<p>

Special thanks go out to Agatha and pretend-to-care. It's people like you who add fuel to the fire. Thanks for your inspirational words of praise.


	4. Approaching Revelation

A/N: Due to some unforeseen (and annoying) circumstances (life happens, et cetera), this came along a LOT later in the game than was originally planned, so I'd like to thank my returning readers for their patience and my new readers for coming along for the ride. As always, I do not own the characters I have used in this story, but the good Sir Conan Doyle seems to be pretty cool with people borrowing his famous boys (so long as I don't make any money off of it, of course).

Secondary (more plot-relevant!) A/N: This is meant to be read as a sequel to my last story "I Can't Lose You", but for all my new readers, I'll give you the long and short. Watson would walk into hell itself for his friend, but Holmes wants him all to himself.

* * *

><p>Holmes's head had lagged again against his chest. I hoped he was sleeping, but feared the worst. For all the horror of our current situation, it felt almost, almost good to feel the familiar concern for my friend. I hadn't known that I would miss him.<p>

"You know," I began, smiling despite myself, caught in the rush of the old times, "I still wake sometimes, in the middle of the night. I wait to hear your violin, and I can't sleep because it isn't there. Mary can't stand my tossing about. She's said more than once that my accustoming to the bachelor's life leaves me more at home with you than with her."

Holmes chuckled quietly. "Why, doctor, I had no idea."

"Holmes!"

"Yes, Watson?"

"I thought—You were—I—," I sputtered. I was full of an odd but not especially new mixture of humiliation and relief. "Are you alright or aren't you?"

"I hadn't meant to worry you, my dear Watson, but I heard them coming. I thought it might play to our advantage to exaggerate my condition."

I sat for a moment, weighing his argument against the worry and pain it had caused me. "You could have told me." My tone sounded in my ears entirely too petulant.

"No time, old boy."

I knew my friend well enough to tell when the man was putting on a brave face, and I could still feel the warmth of his fever burning into my back. It occurred to me then that I had left a fairly important question unasked. Perhaps my own injuries were affecting me more than I had imagined. "Holmes, you've been shot."

"Yes, I do believe we had established that, doctor." His voice was weak and weary. For all his feigning, I believed he was on the verge of falling asleep.

"Where?"

"Here. You were sitting there in that seat, I was sitting here in this one. It was not so long ago, doctor."

I believed he was beginning to slip into the madness of fever. "Holmes, you are not well. I need you to stay with me."

"Where else would I go, exactly?" His tone rang with impatience. I must have sounded as foolish to him as he did to me. It made me wonder which of us was the further gone, and which, if either of us, was making any real sense.

"Where is the bullet? Where did they hit you?"

"Shoulder." The word dropped as a hushed grunt from his lips as his head fell again upon my own shoulder. I could almost see his face as he whispered into my ear, "They're coming."

This time, as the heavy door was forced slowly open, only a single pair of footsteps entered the room. They were heavy and slow, seemingly in line with one of the thugs I remembered from what I perceived to be the night before. With no windows and no light, I could not tell if it was day or night.

The very next sound to reach my ears filled me with the impulse to fight or…run or…do. To do something! My nerves set on edge, I prepared myself for the very worst. I to this day have less than absolutely no idea how Holmes managed to stay so still and so…limp when confronted with the distinct sound of a knife slipping out of its sheath.

The footsteps stopped to my left, just outside my field of vision. It was maddening, having to stay in the chair, not seeing who my attacker was or what he was doing. At one point I imagined the man who had almost shot me the night before standing next to me, holding the knife just over my skull, waiting for me to go mad.

What could I do? I was still tied as securely to the chair as I had been when I awoke…it must have been over an hour ago now. I strained against the ropes, attempting to gain any advantage, but remaining as helpless as the lamb which waits unaware in its pen for slaughter.

There was a horrible, dull thudding sound as the knife met the wood of the chair. I feared the worst, although I had met no harm. The knife had clearly slid quickly and quietly through Holmes and into the chair beneath him, there could be no other explanation. I yelled out at the outrage of it, raising my hands up over my head to strike back at our attacker.

More time passed than I would care now to admit before I realized that my hands were free. The bonds holding me to Holmes were likewise severed, and he fell limply back as I stood. The large man stooped before me to free my legs from those of the chair, and I was mobile once more.

The man offered me the bundle he had brought with him, which seemed to consist of all the medical supplies he could lay hand to in the short time since last his kind had entered our…cell. That was truly the only word for this place.

I watched him for a time, but all he seemed to want to do was to observe. He retreated to a corner near the door, one with a command view of our tiny cell, and leaned back against the cool stone. He waited. This was at or around the time I realized what I should have been doing from the second he handed me the bundle. I set to work.

Holmes is to this day, far and away, the luckiest man I have ever met, possibly the luckiest in all this creation. The bullet had barely missed a critical artery. I pulled the torn sleeve off his jacket, incidentally _my_ jacket, promising at his half-hearted protest to replace said. I had been offered a meager set of instruments (a pair of scissors, a pair of small kitchen tongs, a needle with a small amount of thread attached, and a half bottle of brandy), but they served my purpose as I extracted the bullet, cleaned the wound and shut the gaping hole which had been opened in him. I used the discarded jacket sleeve as the best bandage to apparently be had. And in this slap-dash fashion, Holmes was made whole again.

It was at this point, as the large thug made once more toward me, presumably to rebind me to my fevered companion, and as I made protest for actual medicine to fight whatever horrible ailment had been waiting for Holmes in that filthy gutter, that a set of sharp footfalls lent themselves to my ears. They were small and quick and sounded, for all the world, like the footwork of a fencer in form. My eyes slid across to Holmes who, with eyes still shut and head lolled back, heard too this sound and lent it his complete attention. The set to his jaw told all that needed telling about his state of mind, even at such disadvantage.

As the sound grew closer, I found myself bearing conflicted feelings toward once and all meeting what seemed to be the leader of our abductors, as the thug lifted his head in the direction of the sound as well and seemed almost to grow smaller. They became louder until, just outside the door, remaining in the shadows of the hall, the footsteps stopped. "Oh, my my my my," came a voice as yet unidentified, floating in from the hall. "No, this simply won't do at all."

The figure, cast all in shadows, stepped slowly, purposefully into the light. As the last of the darkness was whisked away from his face by the meager lamp within our cell, I had the feeling I imagine one gets when one is about to fall from a high cliff. All I could manage was a hushed whisper. "Oh. No."

* * *

><p>I suppose that this is the point in my record of events when I must turn the lens of the story back a short way, to the Professor Reginald Thurgood. Professor Thurgood was an aging gentleman, seventy years if a day old. He was a kind man who had lived a good life with so many friends who, as often I fear will become of me, he had outlived. He still bore in his heart the kindness which had engendered such friendship as he often spoke, but he bore also in his heart some few maladies of his age. The professor was once merely my patient.<p>

He was not by far infirm enough to justify the numerous visits he made me, but he was an old man, and his son had gone off to find his fortune out in the world. He was wanting for company in his advanced age, and I was never sorry for his presence. Our acquaintanceship carried on in this manner for some months, on into some years, and so it was that the professor began to trust me. And when the time came, as it will one day to us all, to make out his will, I stood the only man left whom he thought it safe to trust, and he brought me into his confidence.

The professor was not a man, as I had thought, of one son, but of two. His son Franklin, of whom he had told me often, was of an adventurous spirit and a good heart. He was, as the professor himself had often said, "Long on dreams, short on sense." He had gone off some years ago, and the professor had had little news of him since. The poor devil longed for his son as he felt his time draw near, and I regret having no assistance to offer.

Bartholomew was the son of whom I had heard nothing before the drawing of the old man's will. It seemed early in his life Bartholomew had found his penchant lie in the arena of mischief-making, but had not, as so many before him, out grown such youthful devilry. I should find it not very surprising at all, from the professor's description, if upon further study of this and other manuscripts, I should find that I knew Bartholomew in one professional capacity or other. The professor lamented to me that he had passed the gifted mind of his lineage on to such a blackguard as his younger son turned to be. He had spent some short stint or other in Scotland Yard's own prison, and had since acquired quite the reputation in certain circles.

But the professor was not unkind. "Above all else, he is my son. I must remember this, as I have these many years, and, if you are to be of any help to me, so too must you." These words ring even now in my mind, in the old man's enfeebled tone.

The first he asked of me was whether I could be trusted. "To the grave, sir," I replied, to which the old man rejoined, "Yours or mine?" He smiled at that the toothy smile of the elderly and asked then if there was someone I felt I could trust in the wide world. "Mister Sherlock Holmes." The reply came with neither thought nor hesitation.

"Not a doctor?"

I chuckled at that. "I should say not. The man is a detective, the best in the world by my humble estimation."

"And he is to be trusted?'

"With life and limb, secrets and securities. You'll find none more worthy of your trust than he, as I have found none more worthy of mine."

The old man whistled loudly. "High praise."

"And well earned." I regret now every word of our brief conversation. I shouldn't have mentioned Holmes. I shouldn't have urged Professor Thurgood to trust him. I shouldn't have spoken so insistently for him. I should have left him entirely out of the matter. Perhaps then things would have turned out differently. Perhaps things would have been better. Or perhaps I would be dead.

* * *

><p>Who is this mysterious stranger? Why has he taken our good friends hostage? What is it exactly that won't do? Tune in next week for the exciting continuation of…"Memoir of an Abduction!" *dramatic sting*<p> 


	5. Explanations and Obligations

A/N: Due to some unforeseen (and annoying) circumstances (life happens, et cetera), this came along a LOT later in the game than was originally planned, so I'd like to thank my returning readers for their patience and my new readers for coming along for the ride. As always, I do not own the characters I have used in this story, but the good Sir Conan Doyle seems to be pretty cool with people borrowing his famous boys (so long as I don't make any money off of it, of course).

Secondary (more plot-relevant!) A/N: This is meant to be read as a sequel to my last story "I Can't Lose You", but for all my new readers, I'll give you the long and short. Watson would walk into hell itself for his friend, but Holmes wants him all to himself.

Warning (Content): This chapter goes to a sort of dark place. Just saying, there are a lot of threats being bandied about, and if you're squeamish on the threat of torture, tread no further. Also, trying out a new style this chapter, but I think it holds up.

* * *

><p>None of this, however, should have been of the slightest consequence. When last I saw the good Professor, some two weeks prior to the incident which I have endeavored to relate to you, my fair reader, he was well. Alive should go without my having to say, but he was clearly in good health, and better spirits.<p>

The professor had had a letter from Franklin, the first in as long as I had known the old man. Franklin had said he had found something, whatever it was he had gone off in search of, according to the professor, and now all the young man wanted was to be near his family. The poor lad did not, the professor informed me confidentially, have any ideas about his brother or the path he had taken. As Franklin was the older and Bartholomew the younger, it seemed all the misdeeds in the man's history had taken place after Franklin had set off to find his destiny.

It seems now so naïve of me to think that things would turn so well.

* * *

><p>The man who had entered the cell was small, with a fierce, unnervingly familiar, face. He paced around me, and around the chair which held Holmes. He seemed to be sizing us up, but I barely registered his actions in my stunned state.<p>

I believe now that the bulk of my deep shock, and deep beyond measure it was, originated in the realization that it was not, in fact, Holmes who had gotten us into this rotten mess. It was, more than likely, a plot into which I had drawn us. "You," I stammered, pointing a shaking arm in the man's direction. "You're Bartholomew Thurgood." Behind me, Holmes moaned, hopefully in an attempt to communicate to me the familiarity he bore with the name, and not from outright pain.

"Why is he not bound?" Thurgood turned ferociously on the man still standing, stooped now, in the corner. When he did not receive a coherent answer, he turned back to us. "Do excuse us just a moment, fellows." Though his words conveyed familiarity, his tone was cold. "Good help is all but impossible to find these days, would you agree, Doctor?" The pointed look he shot Holmes was almost enough for me to throw caution, and likely my safety and life, to the wind and charge him.

The two left us a moment and I went straight to Holmes. "It seems there is much I should like to know about your new life, Doctor. For example, how is it you come to know the renowned villain Bartholomew Thurgood?" His expression was pained and his voice was weak, but he had all but begged me for the distraction.

"I should think not quite so well as you do. Have you not wondered why he took us both?"

"Of course. Thurgood." These were Holmes's last words before he slipped into true unconsciousness. I had feared this, but there was little I could do for him now.

Bartholomew slowly opened the door and stepped back in, and as he did so I scrambled to look as though I had been doing anything in his absence than conferring with my fellow prisoner. "My dear associates have informed me of your assertion that, if this gentleman were to die from whatever it is they had to do to him to get your attention, he would be of no further use to me going forward." The bastard didn't pause in his diatribe as his 'associate' forced me back into my seat and proceeded to reattach my bindings. "Really, I can't say that I much care, as his usefulness to me seems to be at its end in either case. As you have likely surmised at this point, doctor, his use to me ended the moment you responded to his jeopardy."

"How?" For the moment, it was the only question on my mind.

"How, Doctor? Oh, I should say you already know the answer there. After all, you two do make quite the famous pair. The great detective and his faithful chronicler. Really, had you painted yourselves to resemble hunting decoys, you could not have made yourselves easier targets. I must express an earnest surprise that no one has thought of this before, although I do suppose that in most cases, your roles would be reversed. You the bait, he the quarry. How is such a boring question."

"Then why?"

"Ah, but you do cut to the heart of matters. I trust you know who I am, more than just in name?"

"Bartholomew Thurgood." My own voice was becoming ragged, part with rage, part with dehydration. "Notable in both lineage and deed. So much in appearance like your father, so little in act."

"And you are just every bit the man my father proclaimed you to be! Sharp as an absolute tack, aren't you?" His words dripped with sarcasm and an apparent hatred of his own. I should say he found something about me repugnant, and I could not have been gladder for it. "And so I trust you know why you are here?"

"I could not have any less of an idea than I do now. Pray enlighten me."

"Ah, but it will do you no good to play the ignorant fool, Doctor. If you will not talk to me, I shall have no choice but to leave you with Anthony, and he far less the conversationalist. But then, I don't pay him for his tongue, do I, Anthony?" Bartholomew turned to face the thug in the corner, whose eyes remained dutifully on the stone floor. After a moment, our captor turned his pugnacious gaze once more upon me. "We can speak now, or once you've had some…quality time with Anthony. Or perhaps I'll let you listen while Anthony plays with your poor, broken friend. The choice is yours, Doctor."

"I do not know why you have brought me here, aside from very general details, and that is a man's honest truth. I know only that it must have to do with your father's will."

The scoundrel seized upon my admission. "Yes! Father's will! So you do know what I want."

"No. As I have said—"

"If you have read the will," he interrupted, "then you cannot pretend this ignorance. At least, I believe your friend would ask you not to, through the broken teeth Anthony will be seeing to in a moment."

"I have not read it." This, above all things, seemed to catch his attention. "And if you lay a single hand on him, I shall see you hang," I hissed, before he could interrupt again.

The man laughed a mirthless, shallow laugh, whether at my claim or my threat I could not tell. When he was done, he turned to face me again. When I looked into his eyes, I saw a mask of calm and logic where only a moment before I had seen a monster. "How can you claim not to have read the will, when clearly you, one Dr. John Watson, so named, are listed as executor?"

Since he had, for the moment, turned away from the threats and toward the seeming logic of the situation, I followed suit. "Your father left me only with a set of instructions. The first was to read the will only after his death."

"Well, I should be most pleased to allow you the pleasure of fulfilling your duties, then. Father passed away just last night, with his will clutched in hand."

I hadn't the luxury to mourn the loss of my patient, my friend. There still was work to be done if I were to survive to nightfall. I met the madman's eye. "Might I ask how?"

"Why, Doctor, surely you don't mean to imply anything untoward? I would hate for a simple working relationship to have to become…unpleasant." He glanced at Holmes as he said this last, and his message was well received. "I merely suggest that you fulfill the duty my father left you so that we might all put this matter to rest together."

I sighed heavily as I considered my position. I must admit that even so far into the trouble, I hoped that at any moment, Lestrade and his men, led by the boy I had charged with finding him, would come storming in and save us both from the grip of this insane man and his cowed thugs. "May I see the will?" I asked at last.

Bartholomew clapped his hands. "Now there's a good lad! You may see the sun yet." He rushed from the room and returned with a sheaf of papers. He handed me the top of the stack and I began to read.

_My dearest boys,_

_You two, my sons, are the bulk of what remains of me in this world. You are my family, my descendents, my legacy. I wish you both nothing but the happiness that you deserve. I know that our family, small as it is, has seen more than its fair share of tests and trials, but I believe that we Thurgoods are made of stern stuff, and that is what shall see us through._

_Franklin, I always wished that we had had more time together. You always said you had gone to look for something, and I hope that by the time you sit to read this, you have found it. You were always our dreamer, and so I want you to keep your dreams alive. Go to Dr. John Watson and ask him for the key to your future._

_Bartholomew, you and I have had our differences in the past. I used to think that everything either one of you boys did was traceable back to me, and I think that was why I was always so hard on you. I thought that your actions showed badly on me, especially after your mother died. But I also believe that you are capable of redemption. I want to give you one last chance to fix things the way I was never able to get you to. Turn yourself in. Serve the punishments you have accumulated with every foul deed you have committed. When that is done, go to Dr. John Watson, and ask him for the key to what is yours. He is as good a man as your old father could have hoped for, and he will be fair to you once you honor my request._

_Dr. Watson, thank you for suffering an old fool's last wishes. And thank you for your patience with your patients. Sorry, doctor, couldn't help myself. You have been nothing to me if not a friend, and a trusted one at that. A man sees few as you in a life, and if I can leave you anything, let it be the advice to hold on to friends. I have left a small sum doubled with my bank in a separate account. After I've gone and both my boys have what's theirs, you may feel free to go around and collect. Perhaps after Bartholomew has done his bit, it will have collected a fair sight._

_These things I leave to you, and my mind is free._

_Professor Reginald Marshall Thurgood_

"I should be so bold as to understand that my father has left you with instructions as to what is mine. That, added to what he left my brother, will finance my endeavors rather nicely, if I were to hazard a guess."

I knew what would come, but I had to protest. "Your father's wishes were for you to serve your societal debts before you collect your inheritance. And what has been left to Franklin shall belong to Franklin. Any good executor carries out the wishes of the deceased. I have a friend in Scotland Yard I could take you to, if you like." I was smiling as I said that last, but the smile was taken from me by the back of Bartholomew's hand.

"Any more of that foolish talk and your friend will have more holes in him than you shall have the first idea what to do with. You will listen closely and carefully, for I shall not be repeating myself. I want what my father left behind. All of it. If you should feel the need to test me again, I pray you remember that I do not particularly like or need your sleeping friend. His life is in your hands."

* * *

><p>Don't worry, I'm not going to cheap out on the ending (although I'll admit I thought about it). Tune in next time to see just how far Watson will go to protect Holmes.<p>

Also, severe thanks to those out there who review. It's gotten me to push myself again, and that's what created this chapter. Thanks, everybody.


	6. Peril and Freedom

A/N: Due to some unforeseen (and annoying) circumstances (life happens, et cetera), this came along a LOT later in the game than was originally planned, so I'd like to thank my returning readers for their patience and my new readers for coming along for the ride. As always, I do not own the characters I have used in this story, but the good Sir Conan Doyle seems to be pretty cool with people borrowing his famous boys (so long as I don't make any money off of it, of course).

Secondary (more plot-relevant!) A/N: This is meant to be read as a sequel to my last story "I Can't Lose You", but for all my new readers, I'll give you the long and short. Watson would walk into hell itself for his friend, but Holmes wants him all to himself.

* * *

><p>I laughed. I laughed right there in the lunatic's face, and I find it impossible to put into words how good it felt to laugh again. Of course, he hit me again, but that did not stop me from sitting there, tied to a chair, unable to move, in some anonymous basement, under what was surely a non-descript building somewhere in the heart of one of London's seedier districts, incapable of doing anything but laughing.<p>

The second time he hit me, I looked right up into his red, sweaty, mad face. He was clearly not a man used to the defiance he was imagining he was receiving from me. "Do you know," I began, staring up into his rage and insanity driven countenance, "that hardly a day went by that I saw your father and he did not tell me what a prodigious mind you received from him? Not a single day did he not come to my office and tell me of his brilliant son, tragically turned to evil. I am not impressed."

Bartholomew's face turned a color by which I, as a medical professional, probably should have been concerned. The man struck me once more across the jaw, then stalked out, leaving us to Anthony's no doubt tender care. He was not, regrettably, gone long, however, but by his return, his coloring had returned to a shade resembling that of a human being.

"Not impressed, are you? And what could I have possibly done to earn the disapproval of such an esteemed man as yourself? I do of course mean besides taking you as a prisoner until you have fulfilled your duties, which I do not suppose you have enjoyed up to this point. Was it the threats? I know they seem entirely too pedestrian for a mind such as mine, and I rarely resort to using violence myself, so I do think you should feel especially proud of the bruises forming about your head and neck. No? If not the violence and not the threats, then what could I have possibly done which does not live up to Father's claims?"

His tone throughout the speech had been something a step and a half below patronizing, but not quite outwardly threatening. I could see his ire once again begin to rise as I smiled up at him. "Your father references at least twice in his will that I have an assistant who is also tasked with the keeping of his wishes."

"Do you mean to say that in killing your unconscious friend here, I would only be serving to damage my own interests?" The red was beginning to drain from the man's face.

"Do I?" This was the protection I held for Holmes, and it was not something I intended to let slip easily.

Bartholomew plucked the will back out of my hands and left the cell in a rush of kicked up dust and rattling papers. A moment later, his voice, shrill and high, sounded from down the hall. "Anthony!" the call rang out, and the man who, only yesterday by my perception, had held a gun in my face and seemed the biggest threat in all the world, shuffled, brow-beaten and broken, out the door, closing it behind him.

I tested the ropes around my wrists. They were as tight as I could possibly imagine them becoming, far more constricting than when first I had woken in this chair. My legs, too, were now more securely fastened than ever.

Now knowing his tricks and his strategy, I whispered into the near dark created by the one lamp in the room, "Holmes?"

"You've upset our host, Watson. I hardly think that shall bode well for us long-term." His voice was more even-toned than it had been before Bartholomew's entrance. Perhaps the rest had done him well.

"He is no longer yelling threats into my face, Holmes. For now, short-term satisfaction will have to be enough."

"You are playing at a very dangerous game, old boy. Suppose he should come back with hot needles, or a fire poker, or a knife. Neither of us need all of our skin in order to tell him what he needs to know."

"But if he were to harm either one of us, then neither of us would be the one to give him what he wanted."

"Perhaps upon realization of this face, he will kill us both in a slow and painful manner for the mere pleasure of our screams."

"Holmes, you have a gift for both the dramatic and the pessimistic. Speaking as the only person in this room to remain awake during our ordeal, I say, now that he understand that we are both of importance to him, he will wait until he has what he wants to begin harming us. I suggest also that we be gone long before that happens."

Holmes was silent a moment. "Watson, I did hear some of what you said to the young brute and I…. Thank you for trying to protect me." He waited a moment. "Now," he began anew, dropping his voice, "am I correct in assuming that you did more than dress my wound while you had those scissors?"

"Test your bonds. I could not cut them completely without being discovered, but you should find your range of motion greatly increased. I daresay you may even be able to slip—" I was halted in my explanation by the sight of Holmes's free hand waving in the periphery of my vision. "Right then. What do you suggest?"

He paused a moment. "I suggest silence. They are returning." His shoulders prodded my back as he slid his hands back into their restraints.

"Both?"

"More." That was his last word before his head rolled back again upon my shoulder. His eyes were closed, but his mouth remained slightly agape. Had I not known better, and truly, even though I knew perfectly well, I might have thought he was actually unconscious. For a moment, I worried that I had imagined our exchange. Then, they were upon us.

The door opened more quickly and more heavily than it had any time before. Bartholomew entered with four men, Anthony and three just like him, the eyes of a man crazed. Two of his men moved to my left, and Anthony and the other took up position on my right. Bartholomew stood before me with a look of demented triumph. His face was red and bore an insane smile. "You spoke to me of Father's will," he began quietly. "That was your mistake." He laughed, a short, mad chuckle. "Where is it?"

I took a deep breath, my courage shored by Holmes' ever-present pressure at my back. I would have the courage because I had no other options. "I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific."

"No more games!" he roared. He brought his face in, inches from my own. His breath was hot and sour and his eyes we fixed upon mine. "Where. Is. The. Key." The words were quiet and pointed. "The references were everywhere. I know you have it, and if you don't give it up, I shall have to search for it. I'm sure your…lovely wife…wouldn't at all care for that."

I met his eye. I wanted, for all the world, to wipe the smug look off his face for all time. He had, in the last hour, threatened the two people I held dearest in all of creation. I was not going to give him what he wanted, or Holmes and I would be as good as dead. I had known since the moment I realized the identity of our captor, that the moment we gave him the information he needed, we would be giving also our lives.

Mary. Mary would know by now that I had not come home last night. It occurred to me again that I had less than no idea how long we had been captives. It could have been days or hours. It could very easily be still the night I recalled. If this were the case, Mary would be sleeping. In our home. That these men were preparing to infiltrate.

No. Even if it were still the night I had left, Mary would be awake. She had been having trouble sleeping in her own home since the night of the break-in, especially when she was alone. When she was angry, she would tell me that I was not a suitable guardian, and that was why she was afraid in her own home. When she was in a more forgiving mood, she would tell me that my business had not been sufficient to afford a home in a nice neighborhood. I was being unfair. But Mary was more than capable of taking care of herself. In truth, had I been gone more than a day, she would be seeking shelter in the home of the family for whom she served as governess. She would be…fine.

It had been too long since someone spoke. Bartholomew must have thought I was testing his patience. He hit me again, and blood began once again to trickle down the side of my face. "As you wish. Perhaps I should bring you back a souvenir of your home. Perhaps I shall have Anthony bring you back your wife's head." With that, he and his fiendish army left the room, leaving us alone once more.

"What have I done?"

"You have bought us some time, dear doctor."

"At what price? Mary—"

"Will be fine," Holmes interrupted insistently. "You would never have allowed the villain to leave if you did not believe this already." We sat a moment in intense silence. "And it isn't as if he will find what he is looking for, at any rate."

There was something in his tone that brought back the old time, the good and the bad. It made me more than a touch suspicious. "And just what exactly makes you say that, Holmes?"

"Well, I should presume to know you a far sight better than the wretch seeking to invade your home. And if I could not find—"

I had suspected. I had never told Mary for fear of what it would do to her, but I had suspected all along. Things had been moved, drawers searched, my home had been turned inside out, and yet nothing had been found missing.

I felt a tinge of sympathy for him as I realized that he would not have openly admitted his misdeed if he were not very unwell indeed, but the sense of invaded privacy helped me to suppress that feeling. I sat for a moment without a word. "Holmes." My voice was so icy that I was surprised it provided my burning throat no relief.

"Yes, Watson?"

"I would like to ask you a favor, if you would allow the indulgence."

"For you, dear Watson, anything."

"I would like for you, when all this is over, to remind me that I am quite upset with you."

"I shall endeavor to do so. Until then, might I suggest we attempt escape?" He waved his hand again before me, signaling his attempt to free himself. Before very long at all, I felt the constant pressure at my back shift, lift, return heavily, then lift again as Holmes attempted to stand.

"Steady, old boy," I cautioned him. "You've lost quite a bit of blood. Do not push too hard."

"If you didn't want me to push, you shouldn't have loosed the ropes." He was standing now, making his way slowly around to assist me. I felt his fingers on the side of my head which still dripped blood. I thought I heard him say something, but I could not now swear that I had heard him mutter "bastard".

As he entered my line of sight, I stifled a gasp. "You, my boy, are not at all well."

"I feel fine."

"You are white as a bloody sheet, Holmes!"

"I shouldn't think that a bloody sheet would be very white at all, doctor. If anything, I should think that that would be a very healthy thing for me to resemble." He knelt before me, bent to untie the ropes around my ankles. He paused, resting his forehead against my knee. He panted for a mere moment, then set back to his work.

"Holmes, if you should need to rest a moment—"

"I feel fine," he repeated, working still to loose my ankle.

"You do not feel fine! You cannot. I watched you beaten half to death, I removed a bullet from you less than an hour ago, and I would not be very much surprised to learn that you had lost half of your blood. It is not possible for you to feel fine."

Giving an exhalation of triumph, he pulled the ropes from my first ankle and set to the next. In this fashion, I, too, regained my freedom. I found standing quite problematic myself. I nearly fell to the ground when I stepped upon a sheet of paper left carelessly upon the slick stone floor. It must have been knocked from the stack that Bartholomew had brought into the cell. As I stooped to pick it up, the blood rushed quickly to my head, causing me to stumble. Holmes did his best to hold me up, and I all but took us both to the ground.

"Doctor, much as I have always appreciated your clean spirit, I would appreciate all the more your not stopping to pick up stray papers in our captor's lair." Holmes's irritation was obvious. But I believed I had found something.

I glanced at the paper a moment, but, upon further inspection, realized just how critical this could prove to be. "Holmes," I began slowly, puzzling through the clue I had found in my newly befuddled manner. "Has it not occurred to you that Bartholomew has taken quite a risk in bringing us here?"

"Of course. But the man is a criminal several times over. One must assume the man has a certain level of comfort with risk."

"But does it not seem to you that kidnapping two people, one a very famous detective, is taking quite a risk, even for a madman such as him? Consider all the ways he could have gotten what he wanted from us without taking such drastic action. Had he come to me as the son of my friend, he likely could have found a way to get from me what he desired, with some time. But instead he attacked and captured two prominent citizens in the middle of the street."

"What is your point, doctor?"

I handed him the paper. "Merely that I believe I understand this matter quite a bit better now."

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><p>What was on that paper? What will Bartholomew find at the Watson residence? Will Watson and Holmes be able to do anything of use in this state? This and more in next week's "Memoir of an Abduction"! Only two chapters left!<p>

Thanks to all my reviewers. There is just nothing in the world like knowing that someone out there appreciates your work.


	7. Motivation and Confrontation

A/N: Due to some unforeseen (and annoying) circumstances (life happens, et cetera), this came along a LOT later in the game than was originally planned, so I'd like to thank my returning readers for their patience and my new readers for coming along for the ride. As always, I do not own the characters I have used in this story, but the good Sir Conan Doyle seems to be pretty cool with people borrowing his famous boys (so long as I don't make any money off of it, of course).

Secondary (more plot-relevant!) A/N: This is meant to be read as a sequel to my last story "I Can't Lose You", but for all my new readers, I'll give you the long and short. Watson would walk into hell itself for his friend, but Holmes wants him all to himself.

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><p><em>Dear Bartholomew,<em>

_I trust this letter finds you well. I do hope all has gone well for you, but I have not had word from you since the year of my departure. I have asked after you in my letters to Father, never to receive any manner of reply. If things have continued in the manner they had been progressing when I left, you have by now established yourself as London's foremost expert on some subject or other, perhaps even taken a professorship of your own, the way Father always wanted. You were always the bright star of the family._

_In any event, I have been quite well throughout my travels, and such travels I have had. You would not believe the things I have seen. This world is so filled with majestic beauty, so bursting with the sort of magnificent splendor one cannot see through the London fog. I ask you, when last did you truly see the sky, the stars at night? I have seen my duty in the wonder of the world. I feel I must share my experiences, the glory of it all. I have decided to return home to write of my explorations, to draw upon my own manner of knowledge for the betterment of the public. I have not your mind, but you have not my eyes._

_I expect that I shall be London-bound by the end of the week. It shall not be long past that day that I shall once again rest my eyes on the streets of my youth. I suppose that after my long absence, London will possess for me its own charm._

_Seeing you soon,_

_Franklin_

* * *

><p>Holmes looked up from the letter. "You suspect that our esteemed host wishes to obtain his brother's share of their inheritance, and make his way to some secret corner of the city before Franklin's return?"<p>

"Yes, I suspect something very much along those lines. More than that, look at the date of the letter, sent at least a week and a half ago. Now, I would be very pleased if you would put down the letter and help me with this door." It had been difficult for the beast Anthony to open, but for the two of us, in such a state as we were, I feared it would be impossible.

There was a large handle in the door, and grabbing each a handful of the cool metal, we pulled as hard as we were able. Any effect we had upon the door was so small as to be invisible. Holmes moved to put one foot up against the wall next to the door and, bracing his weight against the wall, began to pull once more. I gave what assistance I could, but it was of no use. "Perhaps," Holmes panted, "perhaps he had the sense to lock the door prior to his departure."

"Once more," I urged him, following his example and bracing myself against the wall. I threw my good leg under his upon the wall and stood behind him on my still-injured leg. We counted off to three, then put all our strength to the opening of that damn door. I felt as though my arm would soon pop from its socket. Holmes grunted with the strain of it. There was a loud, high-pitched sound that I was sure had come from one of us, though I couldn't say which. Then, there was a loud, familiar, squealing sound. We both nearly fell backwards as the door began slowly to open.

We had to forgo any cries of triumph, as the door was now open and we were certain there were some manner of guardsmen in the passageway outside. In hindsight, I suppose the door destroyed any hope we ever had of sneaking through the building. Together, we made our way out of the cell for the first time, and snuck through the corridor with as much stealth and silence as our conditions allowed.

As we reached the end of the hall, I was certain we would come face to face (to face) with some large, muscle-bound, gun-toting thug left to guard us. But there was no one. At the end of the hallway there was a single unguarded door which led to an empty staircase, which led to the ground floor of the building. There was still no one in sight. I was beginning to foster a guarded optimism, but Holmes was sure we were walking into a trap. There was nothing for it though; we had no choice. We threw the door to the street-even level.

It was bright. Our eyes had spent the past who-knew-how-long getting used to seeing in the feeble light thrown by a single lamp, and we had walked into broad daylight. My eyes registered colors across the spectrum as my pupils slammed shut. I barely registered Holmes throwing his hands up over his eyes, or the grime with which he was now very clearly covered.

After a moment, when we both had done all the quick adjusting we were going to, we lurched to our feet and began the trek out into the city. It seemed we were standing in a store front, emptied but not unoccupied. There was a desk off to our right which bore signs of recent use. There were papers scattered about, and shelving all around, but there were no wares to be purveyed. Not a bad location for such an operation.

I approached the desk warily, opening the drawers to search for any indication as to what our abductor might have been up to. In the top drawer, I laid my hand to a familiar handgun. I pulled it from its resting place and held it aloft for Holmes's benefit.

"So outfitted, doctor, where shall we take our new-found knowledge? Surely Lestrade and his fellows at the Yard would be interested in what we've learned. But I should also think your home would benefit from some attention."

"You…you ask me?" Holmes always took the lead in our investigations. He had every right to it; he was the investigator, after all.

"Feel free to correct me if I am in error, but this is a man with whom you have some familiarity, where I have none. This whole business revolves around a document to which you were a witness and named party, and this whole matter is one of which you have a great understanding, where my own is merely peripheral." I did not interrupt him, for I found error with exactly none of his points. "So again I ask you, do we make for the Yard, or try to stop him ourselves before he can make a thorough search of your residence?"

"My home will be a waste of his time. He will not find what he is looking for," I told Holmes with some assurance.

"And what makes you so very certain, Watson?"

I panted as I made for the door. "Because I keep it with me."

"And what of Mary?" Holmes's tone as he asked was a mix of boredom and obligation. But he had taken the time to ask.

I peered out of the shopfront's large window. "It looks to be about midday. Mary is at work."

"So to the Yard, then?"

I turned back to face him. His face was drawn and dirt smudged, and his clothes were tattered. I remembered that my own attire, too, was somewhat lacking. Something else occurred to me then to clinch the matter. "I believe our time would be spent best at Baker Street."

* * *

><p>I cannot say that the look on Mrs. Hudson's face as Holmes and I stalked into the main hall communicated any shade of surprise. Or disappointment, or annoyance, or anything, really. I firmly believed as I looked into her near expressionless eyes that she had finally become accustomed to the trials which Holmes's presence had forced and would continue to force upon her.<p>

The smell of the rooms was the first thing I noticed as me ascended the stairs. It was all gunpowder and smoke and stale air that I hadn't realized I had missed. As we entered the common room shared between the bedrooms, all the old memories came flooding back, but I hadn't the time to indulge. There was much to be done.

Holmes crossed to his desk with a brisk determination as I slowly entered, taking in the changes he had made to the flat. There were none. Aside from the absence of my things, which had never had much of a presence in the common area, things remained as they had been. It was somehow reassuring.

I crossed the room to enter his private sanctum, wherein I kept a bag with a change of clothes and other necessities for any emergency Holmes may have drug me into. I changed quickly, never taking my eye off the door. It was his room, after all, and he had few social graces to spare.

As I reentered the sitting room we had once shared, Holmes was, himself, pulling on a slightly less smudged and torn shirt. He had changed his trousers in my absence and stood buttoning the new shirt next to the open safe. He dropped into his pocket the small item for which they had come and slammed shut the safe door, dropping to his knees to seek out a jacket. "One must always look one's best," he told me, knowingly, as he sprung triumphant from under his desk, jacket in hand. It was either a very dusky color or covered in dust. I raised a derisive eyebrow to him, wondering for not the first time why, exactly, the jacket looked so terribly familiar.

Holmes held my eye with his heavy glance as he snatched his revolver from off the desktop. "Shall we, old boy?" he asked politely, gesturing toward the door.

"Such a gentleman," I sighed, barely stifling the laugh that followed. It hurt my ribs to do so. As I turned, I realized that it was inevitable that the world catch up with us in such an unguarded moment.

The fiend held Mrs. Hudson in his grasp, holing her before him as little more than a shield. As he walked slowly into the room, Bartholomew pushed her out in front of him. The gun he held to her temple was explanation enough for the trails of tears down her face, but still the look of indignation hung about her. She shot the villain a dark look for allowing us to see her cry, to see her afraid.

"Doctor. Inspector." His greeting was cool and cordial, giving no window to his intentions.

"Actually, the correct courtesy would be "mister", as I have no official standing with the police force." Holmes's cool rebuttal covered my shocked silence.

"My thanks, _Mister_ Holmes. I shall endeavor to remember that in the future. How long that future lasts is entirely up to you and your colleague, by the way. You know what I came for. If I must count past three, I shall start with the woman, move to you, then your companion, the good doctor. It will not be quick, and it will not be painless. I think the kneecaps shall be the first to go, what do you think, my dear?" he asked, without turning to face the woman in his grip. "One," he pronounced slowly, cocking back the hammer of his gun.

Holmes slipped closer, standing behind me. I could feel the tension flowing off of him. He tensed, his arm coming up behind me. I realized with a sinking feeling that he was positioned behind me in much the same way Bartholomew was positioned behind Mrs. Hudson.

"Two." Bartholomew said the word slowly and clearly, as though he doubted that we had heard his first count. I suspected that behind the gun, behind Mrs. Hudson, was an angry man who had not expected matters to proceed this far. His tone almost screamed "take me seriously!"

I realized as the pressure ghosted across my back what Holmes had been doing. He wasn't shielding himself from possible attack, he was hiding something for Bartholomew.

The next was a mere whisper at the edge of my hearing. "Three," came the gust of breath across the back of my ear, then I was being thrown down and the gunshots filled the room. The gunpowder smell overpowered the balance of the room. There were shouts and a loud thump as a lifeless body fell to the floor. I was confident of only one thing; the body did not belong to Holmes. I had been thrown down behind his desk, and, turning onto my back, I could see him looking grimly across the room.

* * *

><p>Next time: The exciting conclusion!<p>

Special thanks to my reviewers. You guys make me smile, and that's a pretty big deal.

Also, this week's chapter was a little early, but next week's update might run a little late. It's Comic-Con, people!


	8. Resolution and Conclusion

A/N: Due to some unforeseen (and annoying) circumstances (life happens, et cetera), this came along a LOT later in the game than was originally planned, so I'd like to thank my returning readers for their patience and my new readers for coming along for the ride. As always, I do not own the characters I have used in this story, but the good Sir Conan Doyle seems to be pretty cool with people borrowing his famous boys (so long as I don't make any money off of it, of course).

Secondary (more plot-relevant!) A/N: This is meant to be read as a sequel to my last story "I Can't Lose You", but for all my new readers, I'll give you the long and short. Watson would walk into hell itself for his friend, but Holmes wants him all to himself.

* * *

><p>"Send for Lestrade." Holmes was still staring across the room, but he was easily miles away. I did not know if he was speaking to me or the, hopefully, alive and well Mrs. Hudson, and I was, for a moment, too paralyzed by the uncertainty of the moment to rise from behind the desk. Finally, after a long, tense moment, Holmes turned to me and offered his hand. He pulled me to my feet, but even so, I could not turn to see the outcome of the moment before. Holmes held my gaze another moment, then allowed himself a grim smile. "I should expect he would like to come and collect his…prisoner."<p>

Finally, I turned. Mrs. Hudson stood in shock, and I moved to help her. As I made my way across the room and my view shifted, I could see the bloody heap of Bartholomew Thurgood lying on the floor behind her, blocking the door. There was a ragged hole in his side, and he seemed now to be unconscious, but he would live. _You are a doctor_, I had to remind myself, as the sight of his sorry state inspired in me feelings inappropriate for a man of my station.

I grabbed a large piece of cloth sitting on the floor to stanch the bleeding, but left him where he lay. Moving him would hurt him far too much, and could cause his wound to bleed more than was necessary. I looked down at him, my mind full of dark thoughts, but ultimately I decided to waste no more of my time on him. As I turned away from him, something caught my eye, a small sheet of paper protruding from his jacket pocket. I picked it out and went back on my way.

I took Mrs. Hudson by the elbow and led her to the stairs with the instructions to send the constable on the corner to Scotland Yard at once with a message for Lestrade. The message was simple, "Come at once." As she made for the door, an impulse struck me. "Mrs. Hudson?"

She looked up at me, her eyes lost and small in ways I had never imagined in such a fierce woman.

"When was the last time you saw Holmes? How long has he been gone?"

Her eyes slid to the side as she searched her memories. "Two full days, and the night he left, doctor. Where—?" She shook her head and left the question unfinished, moving on about her task.

I stepped over Bartholomew again as I re-entered the room. I had the fleeting thought that he was ruining a perfectly good floor. I crossed to the desk where Holmes still stood, staring across at the wall. My hand found his shoulder, and he looked at me for the first time. "I expect his compatriots would have returned to their horrid lair by now. Lestrade will be pleased for the address."

"Holmes," I began the question again. "Are you quite all right?"

He looked at me again, this time holding the gaze. "I do not…like what he made me do, Watson."

I held his eye for a moment, then picked up a pen and a small scrap of paper from his desk. Its state of disarray was no revelation to me, and I had long ago learned Holmes's perverse organizational system. I scrawled out a swift note intended for Lestrade, then began to lead Holmes out of the room. He resisted at first, and stopped outright when the time came to step over the prone form of Bartholomew. "The day is not done, Holmes. We have much to do."

I passed the note along to Mrs. Hudson. It stated simply "Gone to station at Charing Cross. Will stop at the Yard this evening to give statements." Beneath the declaration, I had left the address at which the man's lair was to be found. And then we were off.

* * *

><p>The sheet of paper which I had liberated from the unconscious Thurgood had proven to be a telegram from the only other Thurgood of whom I was aware in the whole of the world. Franklin was coming home, and it looked to be today.<p>

Franklin had been good enough to send his schedule to his brother in advance, so as not to inconvenience the man on his arrival. But, as it seemed that Bartholomew would not be present to greet his brother in person, and given my own continuing obligations to the family, I thought Holmes and I might take the man's place as a welcome party.

I spent the cab ride to the station thinking of ways we might introduce ourselves other than to announce that I was the executor of his dead father's will, and my friend here had the distinction of being the man who had, just this morning, shot his only brother. It was not a productive ride, and as the train pulled into the station, I still had no idea what to say to the man stepping onto the platform.

Really, Franklin and Bartholomew could have been twins. The resemblance was indeed so striking that, for a moment, I saw only the walls of the prison Holmes and I had shared. I knew from the gasp and the way he instinctively clutched my arm, that Holmes had had a similar moment of intense memory. I wondered if we would ever be free of the scars of those days, but that was a question for another time, when we had given ourselves time to heal.

I approached Franklin with the largest smile I could prepare, holding my hand out to shake his. He smiled and clasped my hand warmly, though his blank stare confirmed he had absolutely no idea who I was. I laughed. The professor had often commented that his boys could not have been more dissimilar, and even in the first moment of our meeting, I could not help but agree. "Welcome to London, Franklin."

"You seem to have me at a disadvantage, sir. Do you know me?"

I could sense Holmes shaking his head behind me. Again the boy had proven that he was nothing like his brother. As his father had said, he had not the mind of a Thurgood. "I knew your father."

"How long ago was that?" he asked with a smile.

This was going to be more difficult than I had anticipated. "I should think that the good man means to say is that…I'm afraid your homecoming will be a good deal more…eventful than you had anticipated." Holmes had stepped in and started the conversation in a manner that left the man asking questions. Questions it was my duty to answer.

"My name is John Watson. I was your father's doctor. And his friend. I…have been notified of his passing." It occurred to me then that I hadn't even taken the time to confirm Bartholomew's story. "If you would accompany us to his home, I believe things will be made more clear."

The cab ride was a silent one, and I wondered what exactly we would find when we arrived. Bartholomew had said that his father had died the night before he had spoken with us, but Holmes and I had been gone for days. A dozen scenarios passed through my mind during the brief trip, each darker and more unsettling than the last. The worst part was that Bartholomew was easily capable of each.

Perhaps he had poisoned his father over the course of a few days, and kidnapped Holmes and myself when it was convenient for him, only to keep us unconscious in that room until the man died. Perhaps he had told his father that he had sent for the doctor, and had told his father that he didn't know why the doctor hadn't answered. Perhaps the professor had cursed my name with his dying breath, asking why I had abandoned him.

Or perhaps it had been more sudden. Perhaps Bartholomew had pushed him down the stairs in his home. Perhaps he had choked the life out of his own father after tricking the poor old fellow into bringing forth his will. I feared what we would face upon entering his home, which we soon had stopped before.

* * *

><p>We stepped hesitantly from the cab and walked up to the door, which we found unlocked. As we entered, I scanned the parlor for any sign of struggle or violence, but, to my deepest relief, found none. Franklin soon took the lead, enjoying the sight of his childhood home. I believe that, during transit, he had forgotten the reason we had accompanied him here. He called out for the professor, showing genuine confusion when he received no answer.<p>

"Franklin, I believe your father is dead."

He actually laughed at that. "Nonsense. I would have been told."

"I am telling you now, as Bartholomew told me. It has been only a day since his passing, and you were traveling. No one could have told you, had they tried."

The man was becoming upset. "Where is Bartholomew? Why is he not here with me? Why are you telling me this instead of my brother?"

"Your brother is…otherwise occupied," Holmes informed him, not bothering to hide the snort of derisive laughter.

"Bartholomew is, at this moment, very probably…," I hesitated, not wanting to shatter the boy's image of his brother. "In prison. He kidnapped two men and held them against their will for two days."

The man scowled. "You must be mistaken. My brother is…he…too smart for crime."

Holmes sighed, favoring the young man with his most charming smile. "I can assure you, sir, that no such intelligence exists that it is too great to turn to crime."

"No, it isn't true. What you are saying _cannot_ be true!"

While the two had carried on the conversation, Holmes delivering the sort of revelations which no man should have to hear from him, I had gone on to explore the house further. Entering the bedchamber of the home's former occupant, I found the object of my search.

I had seen death so many a time that I had forgotten what it was like to be shocked by it. He lay still on his bed, hands clasped as though in eternal prayer. As I stepped closer, I saw that between his hands was clutched a note.

_Dear Watson,_

_I seem to have taken ill, and I believe I may be dying. Bartholomew is with me. I expect you will find this note long after my passing, but I wish for you to know that I went in peace, knowing that it was my time. I have sent Bartholomew after you, not as my doctor, but as my friend, my executor. You know your duty._

_Professor Reginald Marshall Thurgood_

I kept the note for myself when I led Franklin into the room. The look on the boy's face was heartbreaking. He did not deny another thing we told him. He accepted the acts of his brother and the fate of his father. He asked us only what he should do next.

"There are two things to be done. You may want to see your brother. His was recently shot, and arrested, and your presence may help him to make the right choice concerning his future. And there is the will to be seen to." It did not come easily, counseling this unfortunate young man. This was not the home he had thought to return to, and it must have hurt to realize that most of what he had been told, what he had imagined his family to be, was a lie.

I think more out of spite than genuine curiosity or duty, he responded "The will should be seen to first. I shall see Bartholomew…in time."

I glance across at Holmes, who patted his pocket conspiratorially. The professor had often told me that when he was young, his family was well-noted for raising well-rounded children. It was not only the Thurgood mind for which they were famous, but for giving their children the experiences they would need to survive in the world. He himself had been trained at a young age as a metal worker, and had carried the skill through to his adult life. His brother, now long-dead, had spent his youth around horses, and his sister had learned to cook in a domestic environment. It was his skill at forming metal which had come into play now.

After first checking the man's pulse, as was a condition for following up on his instructions, I turned to Holmes. He pulled from his pocket the object which had rested in his safe, the object of Bartholomew's search, though he hadn't known it. It was a small, heavy piece of iron shaped into one half of a key. I reached beneath my shirt collar to draw out the well-concealed, ever-present strap of leather upon which rested the corresponding piece of the key. I had never before slipped the two together, but they inter-locked perfectly. I crossed to the bookcase on the wall opposite the professor's bed, and, with Holmes's help, removed it from the wall. Behind it stood the most formidable safe I have, to this day, seen.

Franklin came to stand behind us, awe-struck. "Your father's will is, now, in Bartholomew's possession, but it merely led here, to this safe and this key. I expect you will find further instructions inside." The implication was clearly not enough, as the boy stood stock still. "If you would care to open the safe…."

Seeming to snap from his reverie, he stepped forward to turn the key. He looked hesitantly to me, and I nodded in support. He turned the large iron handle and pulled open the heavy door. The walls of the safe were thick and, even though the safe took up the bulk of the wall, the chamber inside was rather small. It held documents, letters, boxes, pound notes of various denominations, and, at the top of the pile, a list of names and items. I stepped forward, past Franklin, to look at the note.

It contained a list of everything the good professor had owned, and names of people he had known. It was his list of bequeathed items. I handed Franklin the list and told his its significance when he met me with his blank stare. Scanning over it, his eyes lit up. He reached into the safe and pulled out a small box.

"It seems I have quite a duty before me. It seems appropriate I should start with this." He held the box out to me.

Lifting the lid, I saw a pair of cufflinks with another note. The man was more prolific a writer than I had imagined.

_Doctor-For indulging an old man, and for your splendid company. A new light for old sights._

Looking again at the cufflinks, I saw that they were made of an exquisite crystal, and that the two pieces interlocked, forming one large crystal pendant. Holding it to the light of a nearby window, I created a rainbow upon the floor. As I was beginning to question the end of his note, I turned back to Franklin and accidentally caught Holmes with the light thrown from the pendant. A rainbow crossed into his eyes, and he threw up his arms to defend them. The smile was easy and genuine, and it made me remember the bond we had once shared. What had happened to us?

"The good doctor and I are due at Scotland Yard, Franklin," Holmes said after ducking out of the line of the crystal's light. "You may wish to accompany us, to visit your brother and retrieve the will."

Franklin seemed hesitant, but eventually agreed. We hailed yet another cab and were on our way. However, this ride was not passed in silence. "Bartholomew and I were close as boys," Franklin said, staring out the window. I realize now that he was only trying to work events out for himself, though it seemed at the time that he was making excuses for the man who had held us captive, tried to kill us both. "He was always the bright one, but I pulled him into adventures. I would get us into trouble, he would find a way out. We were a fantastic pair, inseparable. He was at university when I left. I always knew that wouldn't be the life for me. I can barely believe that boy turned into such a man. Perhaps if I had remained—."

"You cannot blame yourself for the actions of others, Franklin. He made his choices, whether with or without you." I suppose I hoped that telling him that would make me believe it. Holmes and I shared a significant look.

* * *

><p>After we arrived at the Yard, we split ways, Franklin stopping at the desk clerk to try to reclaim the document which had instigated the entire fiasco, while Holmes and I moved to Lestrade's desk. His expression as we recounted our adventure, which would have been priceless on any other day, merely reminded me how weary we both should be. We had barely the energy to work in the witty repartee Lestrade had learned to expect of us, and this seemed to tell him more than anything that our full account would have to wait for another day. "Go home, the both of you. Get some rest, come back when you have the energy to get through the story."<p>

I asked him as I rose if he had ever heard from one of Holmes's boys some two days ago, warning him of our danger, but he met my question with a look that said he suspected the question stemmed from exhaustion and madness. He shook his head and sent us on our way. I hadn't expected anything more, really.

I hadn't the energy to return home, but Baker Street was so much closer. I wondered, as we walked together along the streets with which once I had been so familiar, if Mrs. Hudson had cleaned the blood off the floor in our room. His room. I was tired, I reminded myself, and still short so much blood. A rest would do wonders, I told myself, and then I would go home.

We were back to the flat sooner than I had expected, and there were parts of the journey I could not recall. I must have been lost in thought, following Holmes blindly through the street. Perhaps not the wisest course of action, I reflected. I met Holmes's eye as we entered the room, stepping over the large, but slightly faded, bloodstain. Neither of us spoke, and I collapsed on the couch.

* * *

><p>When I woke, I could feel only a familiar warmth at my back. I panicked, feeling that I must have fallen asleep and dreamt the previous day's events, the escape, the confrontation at the flat, the meeting with Franklin, opening the safe, seeing Lestrade at the Yard; it all must have been a fever-induced, wishful dream.<p>

In my distressed state, I tossed about, expecting to feel the ropes bite into my wrists and ankles, but instead propelled myself off the couch and onto the floor. I could hear the somewhat stifled laughter from the chair nearby.

I turned to look up at him from my less than dignified seat on the floor, giving him the fiercest glare I could muster without myself bursting into laughter. He offered me his hand without rising, and I did my very best to unseat him as he pulled me to my feet, but to no avail. I looked around, truly taking in my surroundings for the first time.

"Does the ceiling interest you overmuch, doctor?"

"I find I miss this place from time to time." I risked a glance at Holmes, only to find him staring back at me. His gaze told me he knew what I had truly meant. It was not merely the place I had missed; I had missed the books, and the clutter, and the papers everywhere, and even the smells. And I had missed the company. Mrs. Hudson was always there when she was needed, but did not question their actions, and Holmes was…. Holmes was a welcome sight just now. But his timing was, as always, somewhat shy of perfect.

He turned to me suddenly, a ponderous look in his eye. "Do you suppose, Watson, that our ordeal is at an end?"

I worried for him for a moment. His query bespoke a paranoia that I found not unexpected. I had seen patients before, locked in private hells, trapped in moments of duress their whole lives long. "Holmes, Bartholomew has been apprehended, our duties to the late Professor have been fulfilled, and we have escaped a madman's clutches to come here, safe from further harm. I should be very pleased to pronounce the matter finished."

"Then, Doctor, I fear I may ruin this lovely moment, but I feel I must honor a promise I made. I am to remind you that you are, at present, very upset with me." His eyes kept mine, and I could see him preparing himself for the coming exchange.

I considered a moment, and decided there was nothing to be gained by starting the conversation with an angry spirit. "My first thought is to be upset with you, Holmes, but I feel I must first allow you the benefit of the doubt. Why on earth would you break into my home?"

He did not so much as blink. "To make certain you had taken your duty with all necessary seriousness. It would not do to have you leaving your half of the key out in the open, and I reasoned that if I looked and could not find it, knowing you as I do, then no one could hope to locate it after me. My intention was to have every item replaced, but you and the lovely Mrs. Watson surprised me. I had to run out the back, with no opportunity to clean after myself. I was barely able to escape unnoticed. It was all rather harrowing."

"I weep for your hardship, sir. You know you scared Mary half to death. She is afraid in her own home!"

"But not you," he said, his voice accusatory.

I eyed him warily, sensing a trap. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that you and she are very different. Men like us—," Holmes began.

"There are no men like us. There are men like you, and there are men like me."

"Pray allow me to finish, Doctor," Holmes replied, his voice low, slow, and angry. "Men like us seek out compatible mates."

"So Mary isn't right for me? She isn't enough like me, like us? Because we are the same, you and I?"

"Not the same, but similar."

"And men like us should settle down with someone…similar." I pondered for a moment, sensing his point. "Why, Holmes, it sounds to me as though I never should have left my room at Baker Street!"

"That is because you should not have! Your place is by my side, then, now, and forever more. She holds no such claim to you."

Holmes was angry, angrier than I had seen him in some time. He had not once paused in his speech, which led me almost to believe that he had practiced it. Had he always felt this way? I had often believed that he had only grown petulant and jealous in response to the happiness I regularly displayed after meeting Mary, but perhaps he had always cared for me in his own way.

I tried to lock my eyes with his, but he would not meet my gaze. He turned in his chair toward the fire, his face communicating the embarrassment he now felt. "Perhaps you should go, Doctor. Your wife has likely been worried sick."

"Holmes—," I began, considering heavily the wisdom behind my decision. "Mary is…as lovely a woman as I have ever known. She is kind, and sweet, and keenly intelligent—"

"Yes, Mary is truly magnificent. Best be off now."

"But she does not understand me," I finished. "She could never hope to. She does not do…she has not seen…." I sighed, shaking my head. "Perhaps me like us were never meant to marry."

I stayed later that night than I should have, had supper with Holmes and Mrs. Hudson, and left after for my own home. Mrs. Hudson informed me over the most delightful meal I had had in some time, during which I realized that I could not remember the last time I had eaten, that Mary had called on me earlier in the day. She said that she had gone up and come away without me, so it stood to reason that it must have been while I was asleep.

I believe even now that Baker Street had become, as the first safe port after our ordeal, a sort of haven for me. Deep down, I think that I believed that if I left the flat, I would find myself once more in that horrid dungeon. But it was not so.

* * *

><p>When I arrived home, Mary was sitting in the front room, waiting for me. I went to her, and she embraced me, though there was some stiffness in her manner. There was something indefinably off in her nature from that moment forward, but nothing I could put to words. She listened with horror to my story, and that night, for the first time in many days, I slept in my own bed, without fear or hunger or worry or dread.<p>

And yet my mind was ill at ease.

* * *

><p>And so, we come to the end. For those of you who stuck it out, and hopefully remain hungry for more, despair not! Keep one eye open for a story to round out the trilogy, where (and I don't want to give anything away here) we may see some chemistry. Hope to have it out for you before too long, so have patience and a little faith.<p>

I hope you enjoyed the ride, thanks for coming along. It felt really great to be writing again, and I want to thank everyone who read this story individually, but I have neither the information nor the time to do that. So how about this: If you are reading this right now, thanks so much.


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